


Touch

by smidget25



Category: Pushing Daisies, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Crossover, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smidget25/pseuds/smidget25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of Five Armies was devastating - so many dead. Elves and men and a certain dwarf.</p><p>Luckily, Thranduil can bring the dead back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Fix-it AU in which Thranduil has the powers of Ned the Piemaker. 
> 
> Yep, I went there. It had to be done, really. 
> 
> For those who don't know, Ned the Piemaker is from Pushing Daises (played by Lee Pace), who had the power to bring the dead back to life. No prior knowledge of Pushing Daises is needed for this though.

The battlefield was riddled with corpses. 

After thousands of years, and hundreds of battles, both big and small, Thranduil will never get used to the smell of blood and death, to the sight of lifeless bodies and carcasses strewn over the battlefield. He questions again his own wisdom in being here, in endangering his own people, and for what? He’s only brought upon them ruin, death, and suffering. 

He’s made many mistakes as king, some of which he’ll never admit out loud, but this – this is worse. He’s made the same mistake as his father had all those years ago, during the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, which he swore to never do: leading his men needlessly into a fight that decimated his armies. 

He’s glad that Sauron’s forces have been defeated, and that Mirkwood should be free once again of it’s evil, but they’ve paid a terrible price for their freedom – his _people_ have paid a terrible price. 

Shaking his head, to rid himself of his sorrow, Thranduil straightens his shoulders and picks his way through the devastation. He needs to be strong now. There is no time for self-doubt or uncertainty. His people need him.

He can see his own healers rushing back and forth with desperation, trying to save those they can, and then he sees the survivors collecting the bodies of those already lost, their movements slower, less hurried, and burdened with tragedy. There are dwarves and men and elves, all together now – not so different in death. 

Upon seeing the bodies of his own men being collected for burial, white and unmoving, but still cloaked in red, Thranduil feels a familiar twinge. The urge to reach out a hand, and _touch_ them, is strong – always growing. He’s a powerful healer, like many of his kin, but healers cannot save those already dead. Only Thranduil can.

Since he can remember, through all the ages of his long life, he’s been able to resurrect the dead. One touch is all it takes. One touch, and those unmoving will breathe again, blink again, and speak again. 

It would be so easy, to touch his men, to bring them back to his side. But life is precious, and does not come without a heavy price. To bring someone back from the dead, someone alive must be given in exchange – a life for a life. It’s only fair.

He has no control over who is chosen for the trade; he could bring back one of his warrior’s, only for a healer to die in their place. He learnt long ago not to mess with such powers. As much as he wants to save his people, as much as he wants to make this right, he can’t sacrifice anyone else to right his wrongs. He cannot fix this. 

With a defeated sigh, he makes his way over to help the healers when he sees it: a king’s tent, pitched on the edge of the battlefield. 

Nearby is a contingent of dwarves, beside themselves with despair – and with a jolt, Thranduil realises that he recognises them. 

There’s a tall one (tall for a dwarf), covered in tattoos and white with grief. He is comforting his younger kin, who is thin with reddish hair, splotchy and red, barely holding back tears. 

Yes, Thranduil knows these dwarves, for they had accompanied their king into Mirkwood: Thorin’s Company. 

Thranduil blinks at them for a long moment, then back at the tent, before something like understanding strikes him in the chest. 

He is moving then, in long, powerful strides, just as a Halfling comes hurrying out the entrance, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. He does not see Thranduil, so immersed in his misery, and makes his way back over to the Company, his reddened eyes cast down at the floor. 

Thranduil reaches the tent in a heartbeat. It’s guarded by a dwarf Thranduil does not recognise; he’s leaning against his axe and watching the soldiers clear the battlefield with hooded eyes. He does not notice Thranduil’s approach until he’s upon him, and blinks up at the elf in surprise, as though he's materialised out of thin air.

“Stand aside,” Thranduil commands, and he’s surprised to find that his voice is fierce and strong – not at all like he feels. He feels shaken and held together by a thread, fear twisting in his gut, similar to what he felt when he searched the dead for Legolas. All these years, all these battles, and he is still not above that fear – that terrible unease – and he curses himself for his weakness. 

The dwarf splutters and shuffles out of his way, and without thinking, without hesitating, Thranduil strides past him. He enters the tent, knowing in his heart what he is about to find – but unprepared for when he finds it. 

He freezes in the threshold when he eyes find his enemy, friend, his _lover_ , prone and lifeless at the other end of the tent. He is led upon a mantle, decorated with flowers (the Halfling’s doing, no doubt), pale, and strange, and not at all like the Thorin who Thranduil remembers. 

Thorin is fierce, and resilient, stubborn, and determined. He’s gentle too, when he wants to be, touching Thranduil with reverence, kissing him with hunger, hating him with passion. He’s quick to anger and not so quick to forgive – he’s too strong, and full of life, to be _dead._

Thranduil knows it to be so, and yet his mind cannot process such thoughts. His heart is in his throat, and suddenly he can’t breathe, because he’s never going to be able to tell Thorin how sorry he is. 

They had been together once, before the gold sickness, before the dragon, when Thror ruled under the mountain. The dwarf, who was brave and quick-witted and rude, had fascinated Thranduil. He had not been afraid of the Elvenking, nor did he quell away from challenging him, and Thranduil had enjoyed it. Enjoyed the games they played – the teasing, and taunting, full of harsh words and filthy promises. But that’s all they were: games. When they’d finally come together, surprisingly, it had been soft and intimate, and Thorin had touched him like he’d cared. 

And then the dragon came, and all was lost. 

Engrossed in memories, as though seeing Thorin’s body through a hazy mist, Thranduil edges closer. He sees the familiar lines of Thorin’s face, peaceful in death, from the long bridge of his nose to the arch of his eyebrows. He looks as though he’s sleeping. 

Choking slightly on his own misery, Thranduil instinctively moves to touch – to feel the roughness of his skin and waves of his hair. 

He freezes, only a breadth away, realising what he was about to do. 

He cannot touch Thorin anymore. Thorin is dead. Touching him would bring him back, and another would die in his place. Maybe it would be the guard, stood outside the tent, or maybe a nearby healer, struggling to save the wounded. 

He can’t. 

And yet, his hand is moving, beyond his control, and suddenly he is touching the cold skin of Thorin’s cheek. 

There’s a spark of power, a current through his fingertips, that familiar flash of life – and suddenly Thorin moves. He inhales with a rush, desperately trying to get air back to his lungs, and his eyes – those beautiful blue eyes – are opening, focusing on the elf in bewilderment. 

“Thranduil…” Thorin croaks, and the Elvenking knows then that it’s worth it. Whatever price he’s paid, he doesn’t care. Thorin is here, beside him once more. 

He looks about the tent in confusion, squinting, his eyes still adjusting to the unexpected light, and grumbles, “What happened?” 

Thranduil doesn’t know what to say. He wants to move closer, to feel for himself that Thorin is warm, alive, and breathing. “You – you were - I healed you,” he exclaims, trying to arrange his muddled thoughts into something coherent. 

There’s a flash of suspicion then, that familiar anger, as Thorin remembers what happened between them. “What? Why?”

“I – I’m sorry,” Thranduil croaks, and realises he’s on the verge of tears. Not tears of sadness this time, but of pure unadulterated relief. “I needed to tell you. I’m sorry for everything.” 

Thorin watches him for a long moment, and although his eyes are still wary, still bitter over Thranduil’s betrayal of Erebor, he reaches out a hand instinctively in comfort. 

Except Thranduil – who wants nothing more than to take it, to entwine their fingers together and feel Thorin’s tender touch once more – knows that he cannot. He never can again. 

He backs away from the touch, moving his hand from beyond Thorin’s reach. 

Life is not given without a price, and Thranduil has paid it. If Thorin touches him again, the life that he had given him would be taken back. Touching the dead once means life, but touching them twice means death. 

Thorin, perplexed by the rebuttal, looks then at his deathbed, adorned with flowers, and his face flickers in understanding and horror – he knows. He knows what Thranduil has done, and the price he has paid for it. 

They will never be able to touch again, never be able to go back to what they were before, but Thranduil is ok with that. 

Thorin is alive, as he should be, and that’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> That was more depressing than I intended, oop.


End file.
